Everyday drawn to the water where the white birds fly so low they seem to touch the silk-spun current which wants a body to believe it is blue-constant even though we both know this is just a trick of light, just-reflect-the-sky-vigilance, the clouds, the trees, occasional sun hold still across the surface until the wind kicks up little waves, waves above the deep, deep color of something technically translucent if you were to cup it in your hands, if you could cup it in your hands, if hands could hold the sea.

Reflective Light

Whether before or after the flock of cranes fly upstream at dusk, the moon catches its own face in the watercup waves

One three-quarter cameo dances into many

silvery-petalled-moons spun from the

Streaming coattails of a brooding sun

who has just


up the river bank, across the burnished rooftops, past the crayoned, arbitrary horizon

Good-bye he said, over broad, burning shoulders,

leaving me all this lovely

reflective light.